


Good Luck Getting Out The Stains

by Skeppsbrott



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Clothed Sex, Condoms, Consensual Sex, Cosplay, Costume Kink, F/M, Halloween Costumes, Homestuck Kink Meme, Hook-Up, Interspecies, Kinda messy, Kink Discovery, Masturbation, Other, Post-Sburb/Sgrub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:43:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeppsbrott/pseuds/Skeppsbrott
Summary: Working on getting out of his post-game isolation, John catches a break at a Halloween party. Damara is happy to have her old cosplays get a new form of appreciation, leading to John learning some new things about himself (and about trolls).
Relationships: John Egbert/Damara Megido
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23
Collections: Homestuck Renaissance Kinkmeme





	Good Luck Getting Out The Stains

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [HRKinkmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HRKinkmeme) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> "how cool is it that we're all god tiers? it's like we're a super hero team, or some kind of anime squad. like the sailor moons, i guess, but not as lame, or as sexy."
> 
> john sees damara in her sailor moon costume and is way more into it that he'd like.

“Oh, my costume?” You’ll freely admit you hadn’t expected the troll girl on the couch to speak to you. She had seemed about as absent as you can get at a crowded house party in fully-ghoulish halloween spirit, which was probably why you took this seat to begin with. She nods, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s uh-” You realize that without Aubrey II, you probably just look like a cookie cutter dweeb. “Have you seen Little Shop of Horrors?”  
“No. Sorry.” There’s something to how she says that that makes you think that maybe she’s not as proficient in English as most trolls you meet.  
“Well,” you continue, “It’s about this guy who… It’s kind of a parody of old shitty horror movies? There’s this flesh-eating plant alien, who wants to take over the world-” despite your absolute shitshow of an explanation, the troll girl looks at you with a mild, humored curiosity. This causes you to lose your thread and delve into a rather unflattering “uuuh”. Despite these past few years of your life being lived in a decently integrated society - at least concerning trolls and humans - you don’t usually look at troll girls with the expectation of them being… pretty. Not that they aren’t, of course. Hell, your history with trolls has been lined with pretty girls from the very start, but you still find yourself caught off guard at the realization of the understated beauty of the woman in front of you. There’s something vaguely east-asian in her appearance, but maybe that’s just the black hair and your suspicions of her poor English that’s messing with you. “I guess it’d be a bit more obvious I’m dressed up if I had the plant,” you finish, lest you accidentally explain the synopsis to her. “Oh, and it’s a musical.”  
“A musical?” She laughs, and your night immediately becomes a bit better. You turn to face her properly.  
“Yeah! Isn’t that silly, a horror musical? I’m John, by the way.”  
“Damara. Nice to meet you, John.” Damara takes your hand, her warm skin and firm grip makes that little spark of curious hope jitter inside of you. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea after all.  
“You too- What are you dressed as, by the way?”  
“Serial killer,” Damara replies, not missing a beat. The expression on your face must betray your slight confusion, because she laughs - bright yet sharp - before continuing. “Looks like anyone. You don’t know!”  
The brim of her cup stains with her dark red lipstick as she takes a drink, and you nod. “I guess that’s true. I wish I’d come up with that, my friend came up with this for me, but she’s already left, I guess.”  
“You don’t like halloween?”

For having been in a self-imposed house arrest up until just the other month, you’re honestly killing it. Damara leans back a little, but her eyes remain on you. Not that you’re here to… well, you don’t have any ulterior motives or whatever. That being said, her gaze definitely makes you feel a bubbling kind of excitement you haven’t felt in way, way too long. “I don’t have much at home to dress up with,” you say before your mind wanders off. “Honestly, I’d forgotten I was supposed to dress up until two days ago... How about you?”  
“Oh,” she says. “I like dress up. But not…” She looks out to the crowd, as if looking for the right word. “I don’t like scary dress up.” To encourage her to go on, you nod, leaning forward a little to rest your elbows on your knees. “I dress up often. Used to. We call it cosplay?”  
In your mind’s eye you see Dirk and Rose debate anime, which, you can’t imagine it’s all that different. Is there such a thing as troll-Japan? Probably. That would make sense. “I’ve heard of it. I didn’t know it was a troll thing too? Not that I’m surprised, but I don’t know if I’d know any of your costumes…” Damara shrugs.  
" That’s also why. I could show you, later?” She pulls out her phone as she speaks, and, wait, is this a girl asking for your details? A troll girl, but a girl nonetheless- what are you talking about, it’s not like it makes a difference. You nod and take the phone, typing in your chum handle. “It’s a long story.”  
“I don’t mind,” you reply a bit too quickly, and she smirks, elbowing you before leaning in, pointing out another troll who’s approaching your end of the room. Her voice lowers, warm against your ear. “Rufioh. My ex-matesprit. We used to dress up, together.”  
“Right,” you reply, suddenly very concerned with the quality of your breath.  
“But he’s a cheater. I told you, long story.”  
“Oh.” How do you reply to that? Luckily, you don’t have to think on it for long, because Damara only lingers next to your ear for another moment before standing up. Her hand brushes over your back, and you look up.  
She pulls the long hair over her shoulder, and gives you a smile. “I have to go. We should talk more, John,” she says. “You should message me. I will show you my cosplay. Maybe tell the long story.”  
“Only if you want to! But I would love to see your costumes. I don’t know much about it, but it seems cool!”  
Damara grins, and raises her glass to you before finishing it, and disappearing towards the front door. You look up to see the troll she just pointed out. His eyes follow her exit, only to turn away when he notices you looking.

* * *

AA: GOOD EVENING.  
AA: WEIRDPRESS.TROLL.JP/AA_COS  
AA: ITS MY BLOG.  
AA: BUT I HAVENT COSPLAYED IN LONG.  
AA: TELL ME IF YOU KNOW ANYTHING.  
AA: @^w^@  
EB: cool!  
EB: i’ll check it out.

It took you an embarrassingly long time to realize that Damara wasn’t actually ignoring you, but rather that, like all other trolls, she’s nocturnal. It had taken you all day, until she messaged you, to be more specific.

The website is entirely indecipherable for someone with your level of Alternian and Beforean literacy, but even if you did speak it you probably wouldn’t understand this particular variation. Your browser translator extension only spits out gibberish. Not that it matters, after all, the photos are what you’re here for, and she’s got plenty of those. Her latest post is maybe half a year old, but the pace prior to that had still been pretty slow, and it’s only when you get maybe a year and a half into the past that the blog shows any signs of real activity. It’s a wild mishmash of mirror-selfies, pattern pieces laid out on the floor, pages from sketchbooks, and the occasional full photo. The first one of those has her posing in some sort of cutesy marching band uniform with a tall hat. Another in shorts that in cut could pass for underwear, a bikini top and jacket, and an oversized rifle.  
Despite how the outfits strike you as utterly ridiculous, she does look great in them. You scroll on, through incomprehensible Beforean, out-of-costume selfies, and boatloads of progress photos.  
And then you run into a photoset of what you’re pretty sure is Sailor Moon. You only know enough about anime to recognize it as probably that, and also to be able to tell that HOLY SHIT, she looks great in it. Not that she didn’t in the other costumes, but there is something about this one that strikes you as more polished and refined. 

EB: these all look really cool!  
EB: you’re really good, even if i dont know what any of them are.  
EB: i can see that you had some fans!  
EB: haha.  
EB: especially this, uh, sailor moon one.  
EB: i mean i don’t actually know if it is like, troll sailor moon or something. but it looks kinda like human sailor moon.  
EB: i don’t know anything about sailor moon either, but you look great as her.  
EB: do you still have any of these?

Waiting for her to reply, you try one of the tags on the Sailor Moon post, and immediately find out that she’s got literal years worth of material on this one costume. Most of the recent ones are just loads of photos of varying ambition, and she looks amazing in all of them. Clearly, it’s a character she’s comfortable with, and though you can’t understand the comments it’s obvious there’s a lot of feedback for it, too. You completely get that; not only is the costume great looking (not that you can reliably judge that, still) and the photos slick, Damara is just… incredibly pretty. Her smile is bright, and though you know she’s wearing makeup, the gloss of her lips and heavy lashes has you lingering on the page. Moving down the page, your gaze sticks to the thigh-high boots, or the way the immensely short skirt falls, insinuating the curve of her ass, or the choker necklace. Your face starts to grow warm as you scroll on.  
White fabric against grey skin. The fluffy, bouncy looking bow over her chest. Gloved hands touching her hair. Lips parted and eyelids heavy. The curve of her back. Smooth grey legs crossed. Her neck and collarbones catching the light at the edge of the sailor collar.  
You bite your lip, shift a little in the office chair. It’s kinda silly; aside from the short skirt, the costume itself isn’t really provocative or anything. Yet, there’s something about Damara in it that makes the hairs at the nape of your neck prickle.  
Especially when the next set of images are clearly meant to… titillate. Not that they’re explicit, but the bedroom eyes and panty shots aren’t fooling anyone. You stop in your tracks.  
Unable to tear your eyes from the way the two long tails of hair fall down over her thighs, or the lightest touch of her hand pushing the skirt away, you’re soon obliged to face the heat pooling in your groin.  
Not to mention spreading over your cheeks.

You push your chair back a little, glance down at your lap with the fluster burning over your face. It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve had this reaction to someone attractive, obviously, it’s the whole having-her-photos-right-there that makes you feel… awkward.  
But then again, she did send you the blog.  
Obviously she knew what you would find there, even if it wouldn’t be explicit.  
You look up again, let your gaze trace the lines of her thighs, from the boots all up under the edge of the skirt. As you undo your jeans and your hand slip down the elastic of your underwear, you remember the warmth of her leg against yours on the couch a few days ago. You wonder if you’re overstating it in your mind, but it was much warmer than what’s normal for humans, right? You find yourself quick to grow fully hard against your palm, and scroll back up to another selfie. Damara’s lips glossy, a dusting of warm blush over her face, and the bow falling from her collar down over her chest. Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you lean back, eyes dropping shut for a moment.

* * *

AA: THANK YOU!  
AA: I HAVE SOME.  
AA: I HAVE TROLL SAILOR MOON STILL.  
AA: DO YOU WANT TO SEE? IN REAL LIFE.  
AA: IT WOULD BE FUN TO DRESS UP AGAIN.  
EB: sorry, i got distracted and didnt see that you replied!  
EB: but sure, that would be fun.  
EB: again, i don’t know anything about this, haha. maybe you could show me the original, too.  
AA: IT IS OKAY.   
AA: MAKE IT A DATE, THEN?  
EB: oh, uh, sure!  
EB: when should i come over?

* * *

Her hair isn’t as long as it had been in the photos, but despite that Damara still manages to look absolutely fictional. Your eyes widen as she comes back out into the apartment living room, and she smiles. It’s less sharp than the handful of grins she’s given you during your past conversations, and there’s something softer in her movements as well. Maybe it’s because she’s not up to date with walking in high heels, or the minimal length of the skirt. As she sits down next to you again, the large bows are just as bouncy as you’d imagined them. “You like it, John?” she asks, the sweet smile still on her lips. You’re not sure you’re quite capable of telling her just how much you do like it without coming off as a creep, so when her hand settles on your upper arm and she moves in close, you’re split between grateful and nervewracked. As you open your mouth, you realize that she wouldn’t have asked if it hadn’t shown on your face, and though you feel kinda dumb, her hand is firm on your (very modest) bicep.

She grows tired of waiting for you. The way her eyes close as she leans in is enough of a cue even for someone who’s arguably as dumb as you feel right now, and you’re happy to close the gap between your lips.

It’s been ages since you kissed anyone, but you suppose it’s a bit like riding a bike, because when she responds to you pulling her in closer it all seems to come natural. Your hands find their way to her waist, then move up over her back and down over her hips as she cups hers over your jaw to kiss you back. The heat of her skin as she comes close is the only thing that reminds you of her main difference from the (two, but still) girls you’ve kissed before. When you pull back, she laughs. “Now you’re the one who’s bad at english!” You grin, tasting her lip gloss as you watch her straddle your thighs. Your hand moves down her spine, but catches at the bow.  
“You look… unreal?” Damara lets the long tails of hair fall in front of her shoulders, and grins, seeming pleased with the compliment. Clearly, words isn’t either of the two of you’s forte, so your touch drops to the round shape of her ass to lift at the skirt, playfully tugging a little at the fabric. Your lips find the soft skin of her neck, and you close your eyes, breathing in the scent and heat of another person, tasting her pulse with your tongue. She tenses up a little, and grabs your hands to position them on her ass instead. You’re happy to comply and generously grab a feel. She’s quick to respond with her hand in your hair, and your touch moves down the back of her thighs.

The push-and-pull as she grabs at you, encourages you with soft moans and motions to press closer against you, is exhilarating. The world at large blurs at the edges, and you feel the silky fabric of her skirt drape down over the back of your hands as she bends back into your firm touch. She pulls your head back, and leans down to kiss you. Shivers run over your scalp as she tugs at your hair. Her open mouth is demanding and feverishly hot and your blood rushes. You feel her weight against you, and relax, losing yourself into the physicality of the kiss. She moves under your hands, and you follow her sounds of encouragement where they lead you; a few smacks over her ass and thigh, palms pressing against her chest through the fabric of the body, a firm grasp on one of her horns. She murmurs a “yes!” against your lips, the couch creaks a little and you feel like you’re melting into it.

“You’re…” She’s pulled back, catching her breath, resting her weight in your lap. The grey skin of her face is now dusted with a dark, rusty blush, and her lips are less glossy from the makeup and yet more glossy from the kiss.  
“...hard?” She laughs, and ruffles your hair. Shifting her weight against you for a moment, you feel your dick beat with excitement at the heat of her thighs and…   
...And how are you STILL not sure what troll junk looks like? Shit, too late to ask now, you guess. With how common interspecies couples are becoming between trolls and humans, you can’t imagine it being a problem, and anyway, somehow you kinda feel like it doesn’t really matter because whatever it is she’s using to grind down against the firm tent in your jeans it’s making you burn with lust. Damara pauses, then stands up. The heels click against the floor as she does, and she quickly smoothes out the skirt and adjust the bows before taking your hand, and leading you towards the bedroom.  
Honestly, even looking past the whole getting-laid -aspect of it, this might be the most fun evening you’ve had in a while. “Cute bedroom,” you tell her, as she press you up against the closet door. Even in the heels, she has to pull you down to kiss you, but you don’t protest. You hear her say something in that Beforean which you can’t even begin to fathom, and feel her gloved hand on your abdomen, edging below the hem of your jeans. At least until she pulls it back. The fairy lights cast a soft sheen over her face, and glitter in the gemstones of the costume as she pulls back, pulling the glove off with her teeth. She drops it unceremoniously, and you watch her undo your fly without the slightest hesitation. Your still-growing erection bounces out, and her eyes widen before looking up at you with a grin. That same one, sharp and relentless, that you saw the other week.  
“I think I love human boys.”  
You only manage to tell her “oh,” before she kisses you again. She’s rougher this time, demanding your focus even as her burning touch wraps around your dick, giving you steady and eager strokes. You feel her breath on your neck when she pulls back, her fist still steady in your hair. “Damara?”  
Damara’s response is to tighten her grip on you, and press her now wet lips to your neck, tugging at the neckline of your t-shirt. You groan, and return your hands to her ass, pushing the big bow and tiny skirt out of the way. She murmurs something against your neck that you couldn’t’ve understood it even if you’d heard it, you let your fingers slide over the inside of her thighs, biting your lip as you feel yourself grow fully hard between her hand and thigh. Your palm presses against the fabric of what you had assumed was panties, but now realize is part of the body suit. The inconvenience of this briefly cross your mind but doesn’t linger. More Beforean against your neck, and you shiver. Her arousal has made the fabric damp. In a brief moment of clarity, you’ve no idea what the fuck you’re doing, because this definitely doesn’t seem to be the kind of thing that happens to you. And yet, here you are. Damara speaks clearer now, not that you understand it, but even in the low light you can see her blush when you look down. “What?” Your voice is a croak, lined with heavy breathing.  
She stands up on her toes, fingers featherlight on the now wet head of your dick. “Fuck me, John.”

This _definitely_ doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that happens to you. You don’t care; you’ve already pulled out the condom you had stuffed down your back pocket just in case this would be the kind of thing that happens to you. “What’s that?” Damara asks, having taken a step back and trying to distract you by rubbing at your nipples through the shirt instead.  
“A condom,” you reply, feeling a little breathless, a little silly, and trying not to think about how her fingers pressing against your chest makes your groin all tight. “You don’t…?”  
She shrugs. “Different,” she states, eyes firmly locked on you as you unwrap the condom and roll it down your shaft. You’ve never felt so attractive. She lets go of you, and backs to the bed. You step out of the pants, and look up at her. Her hand is on what you reflexively want to call her pussy, though you’re not sure that’s correct, with her eyes still fixed on you - or rather your dick, which bounces a little as you take the two steps to the bed. Your eyes meet, and she bends, kissing your chest through the t-shirt before turning around.

Damara knows what she wants, and you’re happy to let her lead as she grabs your hands, placing them over her chest and thigh, pulling you close to lean back against your body. You swallow, your mouth feeling dry. Under your fingers, her body is burning. Her flesh is soft, and you press your fingers against it through the damp fabric. It feels pretty much exactly like the few pussies you’ve had the pleasure of getting familiar with in the past, and she sighs at the touch. “What do you call…?”  
“My nook.” Her face turn towards your chest, and her horn jabs into your collar as she does. Murmuring a “sorry” she reaches behind the two of you, pulling you in closer against her.. Shifting, she squeezes your erection right between the cheeks of her ass.   
Apparently, this is the kind of thing that happens to you.  
Damara guides your hand past the edge of the body suit, to help you push it aside. As your fingers slide up against her folds, growing sticky with her arousal, the gasps and sighs she’s been sharing with you give way for a full out moan. Her guiding hand ends up just resting on the back of yours as you stroke her, “more,” she encourages you. You blush down to your ankles.

When she leans forward, you only barely contemplate the dark red colour that’s now smeared over your hands, her thighs, and the white fabric… If you ever had any real concerns about what fucking an alien might entail, they’ve all disappeared into wonder and admiration at how Damara pulls you in, the reactions she rewards your touch with. Not to mention any of the regularly appearing doubts you get looking in the mirror - who cares, when she looks at you like that, eagerly guiding you to exactly where she wants you? Your shaft slides easily against the wet lips of her nook, and she whines, says your name, then something in Beforean-japanese that sounds like a beg. You bite your lip, fingers digging into the fabric and her hip. “John-” she repeats, her voice melodic and breathy. “Please.”  
“...A- are you sure you’re ready?”  
Damara nods, the tails of her hair bounces, and she glances back at you. “We taper,” she says, as if that explains everything. If you have any further questions, her hips rolling back, grinding the lips of her nook along your shaft, is enough to convince you otherwise.  
She’s right, and as her legs spread and her hand guides you, keeps the no-longer white body out of the way, you’re entirely caught off guard with how smooth the sensation is. It draws a moan out of your body as you feel the wet heat envelope you, a plush sensation that’s almost more like a toy, giving you very little friction as you press into her. Damara speaks unintelligible words of encouragement as you find your rhythm, and you don’t mind because when she grabs you by the hip to pull you closer the message reads loud and clear. One hand on her chest, the other on her thigh, and you press deeper, suddenly realizing what she meant by tapered.

She begs your name, pulls the two of you down so her face is in the sheets. You gasp against her shoulder, thrusting into the increasing tightness, and you’re so warm. She’s so warm. Your t-shirt is since long damp with sweat, but as you actually have to move, it becomes all the more obvious. By now, Damara’s speaking into the sheets. Pulling back so you can see her better, you grab her by the hips, and watch the way the fluffy bow bounces as her body rocks with your motion. You disappear into that, feel yourself exist entirely within the contrast of your weight against hers, her breathy voice and grasping hands, the restless desire in your groin, the flutter of her skirt against your skin, her toes curiling against your legs. Damara turns her head, grabs you, guides your hand to lift her leg, lay her on her side. You try and ask something, but she just shakes her head. “Continue,” she moans, and press her palm against the white-stained-red fabric still covering part of her groin. The edge of said body slides against the lips of her nook, and occasionally your shaft. Stuttering something about your stamina, she shakes her head again, this time grinning. “ _Continue_.  
Your fingers dig into her thigh, her heel pressing against your arm. You like to think of yourself as someone who comes last, but frankly, there might be an outer edge to that area of “things that doesn’t seem like they should be happening to you” happening to you, and that just might be it. Honestly, looking away from this - Damara touching herself, rocking against the bed with closed eyes and parted lips, the bows bouncing with each of your thrusts - can’t possibly be worth it. Still, you stop, hips pressed against her, feeling your blood rush and your cock throb and your balls tight and your breath heavy. “Damara, I’m almost…”   
She grabs your wrist, looks up from under heavy eyelids. “I’ll make it up to you.” She nods, eagerly, biting her lip in a grin.  
“Continue.”

You lean down, in, which forces her legs spread even further, making her whine and the skirt fall down over her tummy. With short, rough thrusts, you feel the edge coming up, and as she grasp for your hand you know you can’t hold back any longer. Damara speaks again, your name between Beforean words you must assume to be filthy and encouraging. The tension finally snaps, and you feel the rush of heat through your groin, making you squirm. Your hand moves over her looking for something to grasp onto. Damara clenches down around you, and you feel the fabric move as she palms herself, her breath shallow. The release showers over your body, and you force yourself not to just let go and fall limp against her. Your forehead is sweaty against her side, your groin is on fire. “Christ,” you mumble, pulling back, grabbing your shaft so the condom comes with you on the way out.  
Damara’s watching you, grinning through the haze of arousal as she falls onto her back instead. Her hand is steadily placed over her groin, the panty of the leotard sliding back a little, catching between the lips of her nook. You catch your breath, watch her as you stand back. Your glasses are smudged like nobody's business, and you push them out of the way and up into your hair.   
“You gonna make me come?” She coos as you drop to your knees and without warning her pull her hips to the edge of the bed. She laughs. "Next time, let's play rough, John." Oh. You nod, and look up at her. Without your glasses, it's a bit hazy.  
Impatient, she decides you're taking too long, and she reaches down again. Understandable. You're quick to reach out yourself, to stroke her thighs and run your fingers over her nook.  
Just as you're starting to wonder about the troll equivalent of a clitoris, she pulls the formerly white fabric aside even further. There's a wet noise, and then you're face to face with a tentacle shaped... well. It's a deep red hue, tapered and glossy and sticky and moving seemingly on it's own and your eyes go wide as viscous material drips from it onto the hand resting against what you thought was the main extent of her sex. You look up at her, feeling the blush creep over your face again. Her face has that hazy expression still, but there's a shadow of uncertainty on it as your eyes meet in the dim light. "It is my bulge," she says, and you realize there's no further explanation to follow. Why would there be?  
You swallow, then touch it.  
It's fever hot like the rest of her, slick and wet, squirming under your hand; almost reminding you of a tongue in how it licks up against your fingers. That only lasts for a moment and above you Damara sighs as it coils around - tangling with - your fingers.  
"I, uh, I don't know how…?" Steadily, the bulge is clinging around not just your fingers but your thumb and wrist. It doesn't have suckers, but it's definitely… tugging on you, wrapping tight.  
She shakes her head, dropping back on her elbows. "I like that. You can…" she trails off into heavy breathing. The bulge pulsates slightly under your touch as you double back, teasing it out, and squeezing it. It's nothing like a dick and you're already getting excited for the next time you'll get the chance to ask Damara to demonstrate it.   
Her hand appears, grasping at the hem of the skirt, and you place yours over it, as you try and stroke her bulge more like you would your own dick. Her hand wrap around yours. You squeeze against the throbbing flesh. She gasps, calling out your name.  
It's plenty to make you want to give her everything and anything you're capable of as you look up, watching her chest heave as you try and figure her out. Strokes mix with tangles as your palm presses firm against her. Your forearm is covered in her arousal; a viscous and transparent dark red, that forms strings between your fingers when you part them. She calls your name again.  
"The bucket," she continues. Bucket? What bucket? You look around, but don't see any. Her tip press itself into your closed fist. "John, the bucket!"  
"I- what?"  
"In the closet-" You look down at your hand, watch her sex squirm and throb in and against it. " _John,_ " she repeats in a voice that's shomehow dripping with more desire than her actual sex is. It makes you dizzy with the fever of mutual attraction, and you bask in the sound of your own name. "John, I need-" This time you snap out of it. Her fingers dig into your wrist, and you look up, completely lost in the foreignness of what you can feel of her against your palm.  
There's no mistaking the expression, though, or the fingers wound tight in the sheets.   
"Oh."

Before you can quite process it, the squirming pulsations of her bulge becomes almost aggressive, and the wet material covering your knuckles are no longer a slow and steady trickle but a downright fountain, squirting onto your chest and running up your arm. Damara practically screams, and it's not until you feel the gushes of cum splash over your jaw and neck that you actually catch up. Bucket, huh.

By the time Damara's begin to come down her peak, there's cum almost all the way up to your shoulder. She's stained your shirt beyond repair and there's a notable puddle that's dripping down your thigh to pool at the hardwood floor. Exhaustion has her dropped properly onto her back, the still boot-clad legs now hanging limp off the edge of the bed. You stroke the back of her hand, watching curiously as the bulge… retreats into her. She squirms a little as it does. Huh. Her shivering breaths fill the room as you cautiously stand up again. You try and wipe the sticky material off your cheek, but that just smears it out over your lips. It tastes bitter. She looks up at you, giving you a once-over. Her tails of hair are spread out over the bed.  
"Sorry," you feel kinda sheepish as you say it.   
Damara laughs. "It's okay, you help me clean."  
"Of course," you grin. She's still on her back, but as you continue she pushes herself up to sit. "If I'd known… but I hadn't been with trolls before this." Damara looks at you and you blush a little. Even more so when her eyes move down to your soft member. You have no idea how your loads measure up to other humans, but right now the filled tip of the rubber seems puny. "It's- I don't know what I expected." Silently, her fingers brush down the trail of dark hair leading from your belly to your groin. It’s a sensual but relaxing touch, and it makes you consider if the perfectly smooth skin maybe isn’t perfectly shaved but rather just her natural state of being.  
When the silence that follows becomes a bit too much for you, you break in again. "... it's really hot, actually. We could do this again, sometime, of course you don't have to dress up-" she looks at you with a smirk; you realize you're just rambling at this point. "I mean you look great as- you're just really pretty, both in costume or out. Well, you did say you were dressed up as a serial killer, so I suppose I've only seen you dressed up in that case..."  
Damara grins and kisses your shoulder. "You're pretty too, John.” After a pause she adds: “Or hot? And funny!” Her kiss lingers on your skin and underneath it a not entirely unfamiliar fluttering feeling makes itself known.  
“No, no,pretty is good. I’ve never been called pretty before- hey, if you already had tried human boys before, I hope I didn’t disappoint.”  
“No,” she giggles. “Not disappointed at all.”  
“Maybe,” you continue, reaching over to brush the contour of her chest. Do trolls have nipples? “Maybe even… a bit impressed?”  
This time her laugh comes from deep in her stomach, and she turns to ruffle your hair. Your glasses go somewhere on the bed behind you. “Make less mess next time and maybe!”  
“Hey- Hey, maybe I like a mess!”  
“Then you best be good at cleaning!” You grab her hands and wrestle them out of your hair. Your thighs and groin are getting stickier as her material is cooling down and drying up.  
“Oh, I’m _so_ good!”  
She kisses your nose and escapes your grip, getting off the bed to grab a bathrobe. Her laugh is still on her breath as she smiles down on you. “Prove it.”  
So you do. You can’t remember the last time you were so excited about getting a floor clean.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Rushie for beta-reading this for me!  
> To the prompter - hope this was in line with what you were wishing for!
> 
> If there are any concerns about how Damara is presented in terms of ethnicity please let me know. This intersection of ethnicity, gender, and sexuality, is one I am aware of as potentially quite hairy. My goal was to keep things naturalistic and respectful, but of course I might have plenty of blind spots.


End file.
